


Stuck

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock slams into him at full speed. It’s extremely painful and humiliating but Lestrade actually hopes the accelerated force of the detective running into him will help to set him free. It doesn’t. In fact, it feels like he’s wedged in even firmer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck

**Author's Note:**

> written for the sherlockmas 2012 fest at LJ. Please go and check out all the marvellous fics that have been written for the fest.
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful swissmarg for another incredibly fast and helpful beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course.

He’s standing holding his hands in the air, eyes following the muzzle of the gun as it is being swivelled by a trembling hand between himself, the figure of one suddenly frozen consulting detective and his equally rooted sidekick, Doctor John Watson.

Greg can feel the quiet tension in the lean, overbearing figure breathing behind him. He can feel how John is trying to communicate to Sherlock not to endanger them further by doing anything rash or just plain stupid. Endeavouring through telepathy and sheer willpower to deliver the message to the most fucking obstinate git Greg has ever known. The most fucking obstinate git living on this planet. That has ever lived or will ever live on this planet.

Right. Time to act. 

Greg clears his throat.

“You might want to drop that,” he says. He flicks his gaze towards the gun with slow deliberateness. 

To his amazement the scrawny kid does just that. He drops the gun, turns, and flees down the narrow alley that opens up between two of the cadaverous houses that line the unsavoury street they’re standing in.

Greg is after him in an instant. The cooped-up adrenaline sets him flying, or something that very much feels like it. Adrenaline fed by anger, the best dose to feed on.

 _Because he_ is _angry. Angry at the wife - soon to be ex-wife - and this time it is definite. Because yes, that infuriating wise-crack pain in the ass he can’t do without and whose breath he can feel hot upon his neck in the pursuit of that nasty little piece of scum that dared threaten them with a gun, that same cocky, self-assured loudmouth was completely right, of course, when he ‘delighted’ them all with the information that Lestrade’s wife was not pining beneath the Christmas tree, desperate for Lestrade’s return. Because indeed, the soon to be ex-wife wasn’t wasting away, but having the time of her life right that moment by having it off with that fucking PE teacher._

Their suspect turns the corner into another alley. Greg knows this seedy neighbourhood contains mazes of back alleys and narrow lanes, the layout of which only a person growing up here could ever hope to master. So they’ll be taken on a merry goose chase. Fine. Greg grits his teeth and manages to accelerate on a new bout of seething frenzy.

_Greg can’t remember ever having felt so humiliated as he’d felt last Christmas. And he’s convinced he’s never going to feel so humiliated ever again. Entering the house on Christmas morning to find his place in the conjugal bed taken. He’d turned around and run out the door, fled to his rented flat and walked straight to the drinks cabinet, and he doesn’t remember anything after that except waking up two days later with a massive hangover._

Another corner. Greg rounds it effortlessly.

_The willies. The last time had been - when, ten years ago? But feeling sick and ready to die was nothing. A piece of cake really. Easy when compared to the burning rage that had hit him full in the stomach once the shakes had subsided a bit._

Another turn. But he takes it.

_Greg Lestrade is a fairly level-headed man who enjoys peace and quiet. Always has been. He was the lad that placed himself between the boys punching each other in the face in the schoolyard, even though that meant he would have to defend himself on occasion against the combined aggression of the former opponents redirected towards him. But now he finds he’s literally livid, mad, boiling with the pent-up fury._

He’s starting to pant with the effort now but he keeps running. Right this instant it’s quite important to DI Gregory Lestrade’s sense of self-worth not to be overtaken by the human cheetah alias annoying, self-inflated prat he can feel hot on his heels.

_Greg’s been drinking too much lately. And eating too much. Aims for the fridge to grab himself a beer the minute he comes home. On the couch in front of the telly it quickly disappears, together with a plate of fish and chips, or some of those greasy pakoras from the Indian around the corner, pizza slices with great chunks of salami that have fat oozing out beneath the layers of cheese. Anything, anything that’s bad and unhealthy._

Jesus, but the kid can run. Another turn, but Greg manages that one as well. This alley is much narrower, no chance of the spitfire breathing down his back overtaking him now. 

_He’s become fat himself. It doesn’t show much, thank God. But he knows he’s grown a paunch; just a little one, but still. He’s always been lean; not as lean as some, but in a healthy way, and he hates the sight of himself as he stands under the shower in the morning. The flat is a hole of self-contempt where he lies wallowing in self-pity and…_

The kid shoots through a narrowing between two high walls and Lestrade makes to follow him, edging in sideways because the passageway has become really constricted all of a sudden and suddenly he’s stuck. He’s rocketed himself into this tight lock and he’s stuck. He can’t move. He tries to wriggle himself free but he’s locked in a space that’s as tight as a duck’s arse. 

Sherlock slams into him at full speed. It’s extremely painful and humiliating, but Lestrade actually hopes the accelerated force of the detective running into him will help to set him free. It doesn’t. In fact, it feels like he’s wedged in even more firmly.

“For God’s sake, Lestrade! Get a move on, would you?” Sherlock scolds. “The suspect is escaping in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I can’t,” Greg says. “I’m stuck.” He hates himself in that moment, he truly does.

“What?” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Are you serious, Lestrade?”

He throws Lestrade a withering look.

“Another fine example of the general uselessness of you lot,” he snarls before turning around and reaching out to pull himself up on a fire escape. The sound of his rapidly climbing feet is already ringing high up the ladder when John grinds to a halt just short of Greg.

“Greg, anything wrong?” he asks, his voice expressing nothing but gentle concern. 

Greg closes his eyes briefly to find strength within himself. The doctor’s compassionate, quiet approach is far harder to bear than the verbal whipping of his flatmate. After all, Greg is used to being insulted whenever he enters an imaginary circle with a diameter of about a mile around Sherlock.

“I’m stuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” John asks in earnest bewilderment.

“I’m stuck, can’t move, wedged tight, chock-a-blocked, sardined, lodged fast. Jesus, John! I can’t wriggle my arse!” Greg has managed to work himself up to a fine state of bristling indignation while explaining the situation to the most patient human being he’s acquainted with.

“I see,” John says, and the infuriating man remains maddeningly calm. “You still have enough space left to fill your lungs to full capacity so you can yell at me. It can’t be that bad. Let’s see what we can do to set you free, okay?”

John lays a placating hand on Greg’s shoulder and that’s it, that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back and Greg finds he’s crying all of a sudden. There’s a prickling behind his eyeballs, an urge to twitch his nose in a sniff and the next minute the tears are streaming down his face. 

It’s all quiet at first, because Greg would very much like to retain his hold on a last shred of dignity. But after a few seconds his dismay increases as a sob wrings itself out of his throat, and that little sound sets the floodgates open wide. He cracks, crying convulsively, and John’s soothing hand and quiet hushing noises do nothing to staunch the flow, only encourage him to let go of himself completely.

Greg cries and cries, giving in to the feeling without shame now. It’s a thorough cleansing of his whole system, all the infuriating confusion and self-loathing banished, if only for this brief moment, and he indulges in the liberating temporary surrender of false fronts. 

John doesn’t appear to be upset in the least by this unexpected turn of events. He keeps stroking Greg’s shoulder while murmuring comforting nonsense. Maybe he does that to Sherlock every evening, Greg thinks wildly while he tries to catch his breath. Maybe the great consulting detective breaks down in front of the telly after having managed to insult and provoke half the population of Greater London and needs John to quiet him in what is proving to be an extremely efficient manner. Because Greg is feeling better by the second. One more minute and he’s able to bring his hand up to his eyes and give them a swipe.

“Thank you,” he says simply.

John smiles. “You’re welcome.” He purses his lips before continuing. “It’s been that bad then?”

All Greg can do is nod.

“You should have told us,” John says. “Talking helps, you know? Hell, you can ring any time. You know Mrs Hudson always loves to see you. And we can always saunter off to my local if the thought of sitting with Sherlock doesn’t appeal to you. Or you ask me around for a pint at that nice pub around the corner from the Yard.”

“Yes… well… I’ll do that. Thank you, John.”

“Fine. All right, now let’s see what we can do to get you out of this spot.”

It takes some wriggling, and squeezing, and pushing, and pulling, but after three minutes Greg is free again with nothing to show for his tight adventure but some faintly disturbing spots on his coat.

Right that moment Sherlock comes sauntering towards them. The annoying prat edges himself through the gap with all the slippery ease of an eel.

“Caught him,” he announces with a smug look. “Donovan is taking him to the station. You all right again?” He gives Greg a casual once over.

“Yeah,” Greg manages.

“You should lose those extra eight-and-a-half pounds you got yourself, Lestrade,” Sherlock states. “Get a hold on yourself. I really don’t see why a man like you lets himself fall apart over a woman. Especially a woman like the former Mrs Lestrade. That PE teacher wasn’t the first after all?”

“Sherlock,” John says in a warning tone.

“What? For Christ’s sake, John. Even you must have noticed Lestrade is on the blink. And what for? For a woman who’s been cheating on him since the beginning of their marriage.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock swivels his gaze quickly between Greg and John.

“I only want to help,” Sherlock says and his voice is much softer. “I supposed you would have figured out the truth for yourself by now, Lestrade.”

“No,” Lestrade tells him. “I hadn’t. I need you to figure things out for me, don’t I? But your blunt statement of the facts does help actually. So thank you.”

Sherlock acknowledges his words with a brief bow of the head. John clears his throat.

“Right,” he says. “That was most enlightening. I suggest we be off then. I can’t say I find the atmosphere here very appealing.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees. “Are you coming with us, Lestrade? Mrs Hudson will have tea ready at this hour of the day.”

Once more, nodding is the best Lestrade can do. What with an irremovable chunk of gratefulness stuck fast in his throat.


End file.
